


Boycott Love

by PeroxidePrincess (thedisasternerd)



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Betrayal, Cold War, I made Patrick russian, I'm a geek sorry not sorry, M/M, Original Character(s), Political tension, Smut, This Might Get Dark, Torture, as if anyone's gonna read, but not like super gory, details need to be finalised, i think, idk what to tag, illegal, inspired by But It's Better If You Do by P!ATD, it's just there, more tags to be added I don't want to spoil, not in the peterick though, oh god angry smut, s, that's a nice tag, there's definitely going to be violence, well by two years, with a happy ending, yay but don't be rude I'm Russian so fuck you too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-07-18 18:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16124504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisasternerd/pseuds/PeroxidePrincess
Summary: It's 1946, Berlin has been dealt out between the winning nations, and the American-Soviet tensions are high.And Pete, of course, goes and falls in love with a Soviet, of all people.A pretty little Soviet with beautiful eyes. Not to mention that they're both men, and little Patrick is only 17, seven years younger than Pete.They're so, so fucked."I need to go see mama," Patrick whispers, lips brushing Pete's neck, petal-soft and perfect "I need to go see mama, because I might never see her again."And that's just the start - for Patrick never comes back.But ten years later, he turns up at just the worst - and yet the perfect - moment, in the worst possible occupation.And when he turns out to be someone who even Pete didn't suspect he could be, all hell breaks loose.**DISCONTINUED**





	1. Lock You In the Trunk of My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> hiya!  
> So, I had this idea for a long-ass time, and my wonderful beta demanded (asked very nicely and encouragingly) me to get off my ass and do it (encouraged and supported me with vague hints of "that's promising" "I'd like to read that")  
> and here we are!  
> strap in you cats, we're in for a ride full of politics, history, angst, betrayal and, of course, smut.  
> edited by satan herself - Hi, I may be satan  
> This is all planned out, so don't panic about the big fat 19 sitting in the chapters section. It may or may not change, we'll see.  
> hope you enjoy!

  
**October 1946**

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _It is a typical day in Berlin._
> 
>  
> 
> _Nondescript, soldiers idly counting the bullet-holes in the house just across the checkpoint, iron clouds roaming the autumn sky, the timid civilians avoiding eye-contact with anyone who looked vaguely formal, the Soviets occasionally poking their heads into the American sector over the markings, open faced and evidently slightly nervous, many with scars and limps that came from their grueling march and fight for every separate building here in the capital of divided Germany: nothing like the huge, hideous bear-like monsters they were pronounced to be back in America._
> 
> America
> 
> _Pete sighs, shifting from one foot to another, bored and, well, homesick. What he wouldn't give to be back in ol' Chicago, perhaps with the lady-friend that he'll never have tucked under his arm._
> 
> _Even better, if that little Soviet Pete's been seeing during the second half of his shift was the lady-friend. Except that would be illegal and in more ways than one._
> 
> _He's very pretty, that one. Pale - not in a sickly way, but like whipped cream, smooth save for the scar on his right eyebrow - with a shock of light auburn hair, bordering on reddish-gold. He's very small, too, petite and almost feminine in his youth, long fingers flexing nervously around the rifle he probably doesn't know how to use properly. 18 at most, maybe 17, fresh out of mommy's arms. Young, far too young for the horrors of war, even for the consequences in which he is stuck in, guarding a stupid border for even more stupid countries._
> 
> _On that note, he should be coming out now._
> 
> _The stout, exhausted-looking veteran shuffles out of sight and the familiar, untamed red-head walks in, face blank but arms trembling, anxiety under emotionlessness, cracks running deep under a wall of stone, threatening to crack and splinter and shatter irreversably into a million shards._
> 
> _Pete knows he's staring, but since when has Officer Wentz been a "flaming homosexual"? He's just scoping out possible threats, that's what he's doing. Just watching. Not staring, never staring._
> 
> _He huffs out a breath, watching it cloud in the freezing October air. It's too cold for mid-Autumn - on the occasion, they have to crack the ice from the wash-bowls, splashing their faces with numbing, stagnant water that does nothing but add to the dirt already on their faces. He wonders what it's like over there, 200 meters away. It's a completely different world, probably. Maybe they eat beef jerky with 7 day old forks rather than picking the least soap-sudded looking one out of the greasy tub. Maybe they don't even get fed regularly - pinched faces tell tales no tongue could describe. Maybe..._
> 
> _It's a minute's walk away, but it's an alternate universe, unknown, just hovering in their peripheral vision, just out of sight and yet so close._
> 
> _He turns his head, squinting to see anything particularly dirty or tell-tale on the canvas-like skin of the soldier's face. What is it like under that stiff felt collar, that fragile china skin? Would it be the same as putting paint on paper, easy to mark, easy to claim?_
> 
>  
> 
> _He jumps in shock._
> 
>  
> 
> _Two ocean eyes lock with his, slender fingers clench tight around the marred barrel of a weapon as those innocent orbs widen, guilty like a schoolboy seen staring at a pretty girl as a faint blush dusts white cheeks like blood on snow, just as obvious and just as incriminating._
> 
>  
> 
> _Caught red-handed._
> 
>  
> 
> _Both of them._


	2. We're All Just Sitting in the Waiting Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2!  
> WHOO  
> this is just the start of angst, my friends...  
> as always, THANK YOU TO MY WONDERFUL BETA, who is ((surprisingly)) hyped about this...thing and I'm not actually feeling too bad about posting!  
> Hope you enjoy~

_December 1946_  
All is quiet in the little apartment Pete got given a month ago. It's tiny and dirty, but it serves its purpose: privacy.  
Patrick shifts slightly on the creaky bed, curling into Pete's side, brow furrowing against the beam of cold winter light sifting through the cracked blinds and illuminating the angelic white of the younger's face, marble and exquisite, perfectly structured aquiline features and cupid's-bow lips, hair like the heavenly fire, tinted and divine.  
He's holy to Pete, physically and emotionally. He'd do anything for the 17 year old, all the things that he'd do, he'd get on his fucking knees and pray to him. He is the church to which only Pete goes but everyone should.  
His little soldier.  
Pete smiles. He can't help it. It's calm here, a haven of peace and, dare he say it, love. Even the soft exhales and whines Patrick makes are quiet and pure, innocent until Pete took him a testimony to the little cross on a chain that he wears even in the most sinful of moments as a reminder to where he really belongs.  
It stings, but it's the truth.  
He can never truly belong to Pete, can never have "Property of Peter LK Wentz III" written invisible but tangible all over him, even if Pete is branded with PatrickPatrickPatrick everywhere - the scar will never fade when this is over, when they have to go back home, unless Patrick wants a new life in America, unless he answers Pete's plea... He speaks English surprisingly well, a soft lilt all there is to show his origin. And German too, for that matter - the American can never forget the way the tiny Soviet had rushed over to help an old lady with her bags, chattering in that now spine-chilling language as she smiled and fawned over him. And French...and apparently "not much" Japanese and "very little" Chinese, Irish and Spanish...  
"Languages are my...my passion." Patrick had said happily upon questioning as they wandered together through the streets on the day off that they coincidentally shared, face lighting up briefly and eyes sparkling like the waves whose colour they possessed before closing in, sad and guilty, as a disfigured child walked past - a common sight. "I am lucky...in...in that respect."  
Pete knew what he meant. Lucky not to be dead. Lucky not to be badly injured. Lucky to be intelligent. Conscientious that he was too lucky.  
Pete feels too lucky as well, looking at the sleeping angel next to him, lit up by the light.  
Too lucky.  
Luck always runs out at some point.  
Straight after the climax.  
Flip the sandglass over, his time starts now.

* * *

  
Pete knew.  
He knew this would happen.

  
_Knew since Patrick whispered "I need to see mama," his lips brushing petal-soft and perfect against Pete's neck in the middle of the night, eyelashes fluttering wet and vulnerable as he clings to Pete "I need to see mama, because I might never see her again."_

  
Just not this soon.  
Patrick is fidgeting, fingers curling and uncurling, fiddling with the hem of his - Pete's - shirt.  
Pete knows.  
"Petya. Pete." the teen - oh fuck he's still _seventeen_ , how could Pete even _hope_ that this could work out - begins, eyes wide and nervous, but full of trust - yet that does little to calm Pete down "I...I got leave to see mama. Back home. The repressions. One week, then I am back. But I...I can stay, I just-"  
_He's going to come back._  
Pete feels the tension melt out of his body, his entire being singing "he's coming back, he's coming backhe'scomingbackHE'SCOMINGBACK!" as he tries not to smile at the torn Patrick in front of him, his ripped and badly stitched composure close to tearing apart between the need to protect his mama and the need to protect his relationship with Pete. It breaks Pete's heart and repairs it in the space of a second before melting out of his ribcage.

  
"No 'Trick," he cuts the Soviet off "I...It's fine, you should probably go see her, if she's okay. That's more important than being with me, I'm alive, but...yeah."  
Patrick's clear, pure eyes look up, disbelieving.  
"It is fine? You are fine with me leaving?"  
Pete smiles, gathering Patrick's small body into his arms, holding him close.  
  
Only a week. He can deal with that.  
  
"Of course it's fine," he whispers, feeling Patrick wind his arms around him "Why wouldn't it be?"

* * *

When the train departed, he smiled and waved like Patrick would be back in a week.  
Because he would be.  
  
In Pete's mind.

* * *

Patrick was coming back today.  
Unfortunately, Pete couldn't go out to meet him because a) a briefing and b) avoidance of raising suspicion.  
Always careful, always neat, never leave any evidence - that was Patrick, who understood all too well what it would be like to be caught.  
The scar on his eyebrow is proof.

* * *

The train wasn't late.

  
Patrick was.

* * *

Maybe he took a different one?

* * *

What if there were complications and he accidentally boarded the wrong one?

* * *

There has to be a train that arrives a week later.

* * *

Maybe.  
Maybe Patrick got transferred to a different unit in Berlin.

* * *

Maybe he never came back.  
Ever.  
Nor will he ever.

* * *

He left Pete.

He's not coming back.  
  
It stings, but it's the truth.  
It hurts, but it's the truth.  
It's agony, but it's the truth.  
It angers, but it's the truth.  
  
_It is emptiness, but it is the truth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...  
> Pete is "dumped".  
> Introducing Beebo, Ryro, Joseph, Andrew and some necessary figures who I will include to get some feels from a different fandom out soooon.  
> -21 out


	3. Let's Be Alone Together (We Can Stay Young Forever)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter?  
> Really?  
> Here goes...  
> English is my first language, so stimulating a russian accent for me is surprisingly difficult: I have to pretend that I'm talking in russian (to my mum) and reading out something english in russian, and voila, here we go. Literal translation also helped - we say "vot tak", literally meaning "like that" but translating as "here that".  
> Language lessons with 21!  
> This chapter is unbeta'd, but the next will be, I just wanted to kick this up as it was kinda slow going.  
> Hope you enjoy this super short flashback/filler. Just sets the mood.

**_November 1946_ **

_"Pete." Patrick says, poking him in the side, his accent - which has drastically improved - making it sound like "Pit" . Better than "Piet", at least, which had been the first attempt.  
_

_"Hmm?"_

_"Pete. Pete. Peter. Pyotr. Пётр. P-P-Pete." He pops the "p"s out happily, eyes shining "Петя. Вот так. Petya. Петя."  
_

_He laughs, a bright clear sound, before becoming quiet again._

_Guilt shines in his eyes, shame oozing tangible off him._

_This is what war has done._

_Pete breaks the silence by laughing gently at what was evidently the process of being given a nickname, nudging Patrick, reminding him that the war is over and he's happy now._

_Patrick smiles nervously at first, just an upwards twitch of his practically edible lips to please Pete, before breaking into a full-blown grin launching himself at the older American and tackling him to the floor of the dingy apartment, eyes glittering with clandestine emotions as he leans down to whisper in Pete's ear, something he usually does with a mischievous smirk and an impish glint in his eyes._

_"There is a secret I have, Петя," he says slowly, playfully despite the strange but not uncommonly occurring anxiety in his ocean sparkle eyes "Do you want to hear it?"_

_Pete shrugs coyly, attempting to kiss Patrick but instead smacking a wet misplaced smooch on his cheek. Patrick grimaces and wipes it away with a "nuh-uh" expression in his eyes._

_"I asked you a question."_

_Pete shrugs again, tagging along to Patrick's game...this may end up in something more satisfactory if he tries hard enough..._

_Patrick rolls his eyes, and his lips brush the shell of Pete's ear, sending shivers running across the man's spine._

_" **Я тебя люблю.** "_

_Pete blinks. He has mixed feelings concerning Patrick's usage of Russian. One one hand, it's kinda hot to drive him to the point of senselessness, pinned, thrashing, squirming, that he's begging in a mixture of the two languages, going from "please" to groaning indecipherable nonsense in the lilting language. And at times like these it's always fascinating to lie awake, long after his partner's spent body and mind have shut down, speculating what it was that Patrick had said in his language, what action had driven him to his original state._

_But now, it's slightly frustrating, held down in some sort of teenage game of "guess what I'm saying", even if this particular phrase seems important, heavy - but for all it is, it could be a revelation of "You have a small dick" or "You're ugly"._

_He doesn't know, and Patrick knows that he doesn't know. But Patrick is expecting him to at least understand the undertone of the words, the underlying emotion, and most of all, reply._

_Instead, Pete just kisses him, filing that phrase away along with all the countless others, never understood, forgotten._

 

 

 

**_Never understanding, never comprehending, emotions easily read._ **

**_That is Pete Wentz._ **

**_Always hard to understand, hard to comprehend, emotions impossible to read._ **

**_That is - or rather was - Patrick Stumph._ **

 

**_Four lines to sum up 11 years of misunderstandings, bitterness and abandonment that Pete thought he knew the reason to._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gravity of what Patrick said of course had to be misunderstood and land Pete in his bitter, glorious mess.  
> Because Patrick said...  
> And he meant it.  
> *facepalms* oh Pete...  
> dun dun dunnnn~  
> -21 out


	4. Forgetting You (Praying for Love in a Lap Dance)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER  
> I have never been to Chicago. Certainly not to 1950s chicago - in fact, I've never even been to the US, as much as I'd like to.  
> So, I'm avoiding place names, etc as much as possible, and those that are there probably don't exist, so PLEASE DON"T HATE!  
> Any Chicagoans/those who know the city very well, I'd be glad if you can point out anything particularly, painfully wrong, etc.  
> ...P.S. I introduced two mystery pairings~ Brits out there, any guesses? No? (there are only 5 works for one of the pairings on ao3, it makes me very sad). sorry. I'll keep them as OCs, but my darling beta might be able to guess because I vented some feels to her...

**10 YEARS LATER**

 

_January 1957_

 

 

It's quiet.

 

 

Too quiet for Pete.

 

 

The only sounds on the cold, desolate streets of downtown Chicago are his own footsteps and the screaming of his thoughts, occasionally accompanied by the distant thrum of the club he's headed to. The mask is heavy in his hand, the feathers already moulting, leaving itchy, clingy bits of material on his hands, always getting onto his clothes and raising questions from his fiancée. Ashlee's a nice girl, with a nice voice, but she's just a replacement. Replacement for those wide, ocean eyes and red-gold hair-

 

 

_No,_  he reminds himself,  _Stop thinking about him_. If he did, maybe he wouldn't be doing this in the first place.

 

 

He loved her, once. Loved that she was pretty much taller than him, her voice, her endless curiosity, but then realised that she's not who he wants. Fascinating, really, how three months of a quite literally illegal relationship that ended in betrayal is much dearer to him than than three years of chastity and devotion.

 

 

_With Ashlee, at least._

 

 

He kicks an empty bottle out of his way, watching the filthy glass roll away and shatter against the equally disgusting brick wall, sending a pack of rats scurrying across, swarming around him.

 

 

_Birds of a feather flock together_.

 

 

He ignores the reptilian voice slithering around in his head, hand clenching tighter around the peeling mask in his hand. Brendon had said that today there'd be a "clan meeting". After ensuring that he hadn't been talking about the KKK (Brendon had actually looked close to slapping him for that, and Gabe was mortified and stayed as far as possible from the founder of the club), he'd agreed to come, even if today he had meant to carry on working on the new article he'd been commissioned, fancifully titled "Communist or Alien Invasion? Eagles to the Guard!". In truth, he was glad to take a break from writing that sickening load of steaming crap, even if the reason was really that it reminded him too much of the glittering, scratched red star on his too large hat which always slipped down, covering his eyes and settling on the bridge of his nose as he groped blindly for Pete.

 

 

_There you go again, right back to him_.

 

 

His feet have carried him closer and closer to the club. The music is definable, some strange concoction of Brendon's. He always plays the opening song before disappearing off somewhere with a new twink he picked up. Usually his little Baby Ryan, occasionally Dallon, or even Spencer, who was nearly as short as Pat-

 

 

_Again? You're disgusting_.

 

 

He's in sight of the doors, an island of light in this concrete mess of filth. He slips on his mask, the fake lace scratching his face, reminding him of the complete and utter artificiality of this escapade, doubt scratching between his ears like a infection that won't fucking go away. Much like a virus, it starts off in the most disgusting conditions. 

 

_We're rather cheerful today._

 

The two bouncers are Brits, and about as useless as they get, tiny and always snickering - then again, everyone here except Dallon and David are under six feet -and although they have never revealed their names and he hasn't spoken to them once, he knows that the taller one is "Idiot 1" and the shorter one is "Idiot 2". They were apparently comedians back in England, as was David. The three make quite a comedy troupe, really, even if the only other Englishman (who was also behind the christening of the bouncers), known only as "Sir", rolls his eyes and raises his index finger, warning them if they get too rowdy.

 

 

The duo wave excitedly to Pete, recognising him immediately. They follow him in and are replaced by more intimidating bouncers, chattering in their almost incomprehensible northern accents, their own plain white masks knocking together. He ignores them as best as he can, weaving his way through the already teeming crowd of grey suits, feathers, glitter and half naked boys, fresh out of the back room. He recognises one of them, the only one he feels even vaguely attracted to (what was his name? Mikey?) and gives him a half nod, shaking his head at the beckoning finger and feral smile set between knife-edge cheekbones. He clatters up the stairs, the bouncers' incessant chatter and chortling following as they tramp up after him, elbowing each other and giggling.

 

 

He's the last to arrive. David yells "Just kiss already!" to the two other Brits behind him and Sir, who's sitting next to him and looking, as always, blank, just raises a single finger in warning. Andy sits, tense and passive, next to his unconscious friend, Joe, while Brendon sends him a lazy, feline smirk, patting the empty seat next to him while petting his tiny guitarist, Ryan, who's sitting in his lap. Pete smiles stiffly, not really wanting to sit too close to Brendon since he has a boy in his lap, but sits anyway, shuffling as close to Joe's already comatose form as he can.

 

 

The fact that Joe is probably passed out due to drugs is not nearly as disturbing to Pete as the fact that the Jewish man somehow reminds Pete of...  _Him_. Far too much to be a coincidence. It might just be déjà vu, but he could swear that he's seen Joseph Trohman before in Berlin, even if he never actually spoken to or really seen him before eight months ago, when he started coming here.

 

 

It's stupid, but it unsettles Pete, and reminds him far too much, painfully too much -  _isn't every memory of him agony?_  - of his little Soviet.

 

 

Oh, wait. He isn't Pete's, and never was.

 

 

_Oops_.

 

 

He jerks abruptly out of his reverie when Andy's inked hands clap inches away from his face, the anarchist's face etched with irritation.

 

 

"-huh?" is all Pete manages to get out as Andy sighs and repeats what he said, probably for the fifth time. It's quite often that Pete zones out like this, what with David teasing and flirting with Sir, Sir trying to shove him off, the stifled whimpers of the boy in Brendon's lap, Dallon's easy grin and the two bouncers goofing around in the shadows. Not uch to do, really. He's pretty much the outcast, the odd jigsaw piece that just doesn't fit in to the already whole puzzle.

Andy waits another minute or so for Pete's full attention. When he has it, he starts, voice dripping annoyance and exasparation. He doesn't like talking to people. It's sort of a miracle he's here, in a club, at all.

 

"We're getting a new member tomorrow, idiot. Fish you out of your exile, maybe. Before you ask, he's blonde, green eyes, don't know the height, he was sitting down, but he was in a suit, really dumb gloves with their fingers cut off, and singing about someone called Allie. Turns out, he's a smart guy, and since he was slightly drunk he told me that Allie was the girl he had a relationship with before realising he was gay. No questions, please. He looked like your type and I can't stand the dumb, moping look on your face when you look at a couple. Don't thank me."

 

 

Pete gapes, then shuts his mouth with an audible click just as David opens his to make a sarcastic comment but Sir claps a well timed hand over the comedian's - and probably his partner's - mouth.

 

 

"Okay," he says slowly, with no real intention of seeing this new dude at all, "Fine."

 

 

At this point, his answer is lost in Brendon's gleeful giggle and a wolf-whistle. David discovered that the bouncers have been making out for the whole of the conversation and is smugly accepting five dollars from a scowling Sir.

 

 

As he watches the incredibly short duo with a noticeable height difference going to each other with star-struck eyes, one having to visibly lean down, he can't help but wonder if that was what he and the blue eyed boy had looked like.

 

 

Because in the end, everything returns to the red head.

 

 

Him, and only him.

  


 

_Patrick_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from P!ATD's But It's Better If You Do.  
> Hope you enjoyed!  
> -21 out  
> EDIT 31/10/2018  
> THIS FIC IS STILL GOING, BUT I'M HAVING A MINI-WRITER'S BLOCK FOR IT RIGHT NOW. SO, DESPITE THE FACT THAT IT IS PLANNED AND I KNOW THE SCENE THAT IS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN NEXT, I CANNOT. WRITE. IT. ((grrrrr))  
> sorry for the delay! (even my beta's slightly pissed with me, but what can you do, she's putting up with my wayward habits of straying too far into DW world...)  
> but hey, if you're interested, I'm putting up a Matt Smith/David Tennant fic up within this week, go check it out (it's half written, but getting there very fast, and my darling beta's in love with it, so...) if you're interested!


	5. I'm Afraid (That I May Have Faked It)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy  
> sorry for the long-ass wait, but I sorta drifted away from FOB for a bit, and y'know  
> *waves hand vaguely*  
> this is short, but I feel like I'd rather it be like this than waiting any longer  
> :)  
> hope you enjoy...

But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.

- _Matthew 5:28_

* * *

* * *

 

_The streets are packed with coquettish night-goers, all dressed up like dolls. Something, somewhere is going on, and that does little to clear the heavily-perfumed masses. The air is a wall of sound and cheap scents, the women tittering while their partners act formal and aristocratic in their suits and gloves. No-one pays attention to a man with a venetian mask weaving his way through the crowd. They either don't notice him, or assume he's an incredibly late actor.  Not far from the truth, really. They just incorrectly assumed the innocence of his nightly occupation, and his apparent tardiness was an excuse for the illicit direction he was headed in._

_For Martin Benzedrine was indeed an actor, a mere pretender in a seething coil of people with one goal, a one-track mind that chants only the hedonistic rawness of the body._

_More importantly, he was an actor for himself, hypocritic to his soul._

_He wants to forget, at least for one night, what - who - he will never forget._

_Ignore the way his insides twist and shred, rotting with the sickening dampness of churning despair, swallowed to spare him the shame of baring it, left to fester inside._

_Drown it, scorch it out of his system with the liquid fire, awaken the primeval and lose his sense of self, humanity, to forget the price of emotions._

_Everything comes with a price, even this._

_He's got money to stave them off, but even that will soon run out._

_What then?_

_He finds that he doesn't care._

_He's a professional._

_He's here to get information._

_He has an excuse._

_Just in case._

* * *

**_Professional, focus, information, you can't-_ **

_It's like entering Hell every time he picks his way down velvet steps, red lights illuminating everything red red red, like a slowly decaying cover of a poorly-made parody of a vein carrying the blood cells in dire need of oxygen, of life source, to the thumping beat of the music, the heart that controls everything, the speed, the rhythm, the danger._

_The sights are familiar, almost welcoming. Same people, same lights, same masks._

_Same lack of the one person - well, actually two - he can't find._

**_Two lives, idiot. You're not who you think you are. You are what the government wants you to be until you find it. Forget him. _ **

_It's rare that that happens, though. The never coming back, that is. In this den, he found out what drugs really are. The club itself is one, its hallucinogenic lights, spectres instead of humans, flitting, only real when you reach out for them._

_Ironic, really._

* * *

 

* * *

  _February 1957_

He sees  _him_ immediately.

The one that's been coming here for about a week now, sitting quietly in the corner with his own set of painkillers. Pete can feel his despair through the bitter anger in the way he downs the shots in front of him, the dead eyes that scan the room from under silver paint after several doses. He's always slightly surprised that the stranger is completely unnoticed by the other...things. They're not people anymore, but still. The man is extremely attractive, about 27-ish, blond, quiff sticking out over porcelain skin and aquiline features, obviously short even when seated, legs stretched out before being nervously tucked under, callous fingers tapping in agitation, crisp shirt remaining that way even when his soul has been sucked out, because that's what drugs do. Pete has never really wanted to approach, never wanted to intensify this man's guilt, felt a strange sense of empathy as the stranger tries to find a cure in an empty shot glass slumped alone and avoiding the equally dead gazes of everyone else.

He looks a lot like the man Andy told him to meet, but who never showed up. It still stings a bit, that he never showed. Well. The fact that he didn't get laid does, but otherwise he just doesn't care.

Pete realises he's been staring as the stranger's eyes snap up, flickering black in the lighting. They narrow. Warning, dangerous. Tongue flicks lazily over plush lips. Challenging.

_Oh God._

He used to like challenges. But now, at 34, he's a smart, sensible man with a duty and a purpose. So why is he engaging with what is pretty much eye sex with this handsome stranger? Oh yeah, he doesn't love his fiancee because of a boy he fell head over heels for nearly 10 years ago. Who then  _left him._

Pete snarls, anger sparking deep in his gut. He's going to wreck this stranger, is going to pretend he's  _him_ and fucking destroy him.

He gets up, watching the stranger mirror him.

"Got a name, honey?" he drawls, watching the smaller man's eyes blink slowly, perfect teeth slowly sinking into his lip.

"Martin," he says, blond hair mussed when up close, falling apart in a way that sets Pete on fire, "Martin Benzedrine."

**Author's Note:**

> whew!  
> whatcha think?  
> (actually, i'ma carry on with this shit no matter what you think, so :) )  
> Hope you enjoyed enough to stick around and wait for the next part.  
> :)  
> chapter title from Snitches and Talker Get Stitches and Walkers by FOB


End file.
